


give me something to be scared of

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Boss/Employee Relationship, Desk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Power Dynamics, Sex Toys, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 07:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: One sip of Clary’s blood is enough to sate Camille, on a purely technical front, but the angelic quality of it, howheavenlyit is as it singes down her throat, is far too addictive for one sip to be sufficient.She’s fairly certain that even if she drained Clary every single day for the rest of her life, it would never be enough.





	give me something to be scared of

**Author's Note:**

> written for the following prompt for round 2 of the Shadowhunters Prompt Ficathon: _Camille/any lady- blood drinking during, before, and/or after sex._
> 
> canon-divergence in that Camille is still a vampire and Clary is still a Shadowhunter, but she made it past her eighteenth birthday without finding out about it. also, the vampires sell antiquities. 
> 
> Title from [Evidence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRY6gcOgCFM) by Marilyn Manson.

“Your ten o’clock canceled.” 

Camille glances up from the ledger she’s paging through, each column filled out in Raphael’s scrupulous, painfully precise script. Clary is leaning against the door frame, orange hair pouring over her shoulders in loose waves. 

“Mr. Thomas?” The man’s name just so happens to appear in one of the columns on her current page, and she stabs the point of her fingernail into the period between his last name and title. “What was his excuse this time?” 

“Scheduling conflicts. The same as last time.” 

“Of course it was,” Camille muses, tearing a hole through his name. It’s the third time in so many weeks that he’s blown her off, feigning a conflict or some urgent matter he needed to attend to. She’s been lenient with him, only because he’s been one of their better customers in the past, to the tune of at least forty million dollars, but that leniency only goes so far. 

She knows where his New York office is. 

It might be worth paying him a visit one night. 

“Do I have any further appointments?” she asks, flipping the ledger closed with a thud. 

“Nothing official. Raphael said that he wanted to see you, when you had time.” 

“He can wait.” Camille rises from her chair and steps around the desk, until she’s leaning back against the other side of it. “Come here.” 

To her credit, even though they both know exactly how the rest of the evening is going to proceed, Clary at least pretends to be hesitant. She stays lingering in the doorway for a moment, bottom lip sucked between her teeth, an unconscious, maddening impulse that makes Camille want to cross the room so that she can press her own, considerably sharper, teeth into the divots left by Clary’s. 

“Fine,” Clary says, stepping inside and closing the ornately carved wooden door. “But I can’t stay long. Simon and Maureen are playing a show at midnight.”

“Hmm,” Camille says noncommittally. Thankfully, she’s yet to have the displeasure of actually meeting Clary’s friends in person but, despite how Clary’s face lights up whenever she talks about them, she’s not exactly inclined towards being fond of them. 

Clary may insist that her friendship with both of them is strictly platonic, but Camille has heard that before, and she’s never been a fan of other people having a hold, no matter how tentative, on her possessions, whether they be flesh and blood or one of the antiques filling her homes. 

Clary’s boots, black leather stilettos that Camille gave her as a Christmas bonus last year, click against the varnished floor as she crosses the room. She comes to a stop just in front of Camille and tilts her head slightly, just enough to give her chin a defiant jut, even though the smile on her face _almost_ looks innocent. 

Not for the first time, Camille wonders how much more defiant Clary would be if she knew she had Shadowhunter blood coursing through her veins. 

However, so far as Camille can tell, that knowledge has yet to come to light; Clary may know about vampires, entirely by chance, but she’s still woefully uninformed about the rest of the shadow world, not to mention the fact that she’s part of it and, even though Camille has a strong suspicion as to who put the spell on Clary that blocked that knowledge from her, she doesn’t have any immediate plans of being the one to broach the topic. 

The longer Clary remains oblivious, the longer Camille can continue to savor a practically unlimited supply of pure, Shadowhunter blood. 

Reaching out, she wraps her fingers around Clary’s chin and uses her grip to swap their positions. She goes slow; it wouldn’t do to accidentally rip her lover’s jawbone out, but Clary’s hips still hit the desk hard enough to send the pen resting on top of the ledger to the floor. 

“Not going to say sorry?” Clary asks, hopping up onto the desk and splaying her legs apart, just wide enough for Camille to step between them. 

“You told me you don’t like when I lie to you,” Camille replies, settling her hands on Clary’s thighs. Her jeans are full of holes, probably ones that Clary made herself knowing her penchant for creativity, and if it weren’t for the fact that she doesn’t want to send her home naked, Camille would hook her fingers into them and rip them to shreds. 

“Like that’s stopped you before.”

Camille clucks her tongue and sighs as she traces one finger up Clary’s torso, between her breasts, to her throat. 

“I thought we talked about insubordination,” she murmurs, pressing her pointed nail against Clary’s jugular. She can feel her heartbeat pounding, and it would be all too easy to simply _push_ her nail through Clary’s thin, pale skin, to lap up her blood like wine spilling from a barrel. 

“Must have missed that on orientation day.” When Camille flicks her eyes away from the steady pounding of Clary’s pulse, she’s not surprised that there’s a faint smirk gracing Clary’s lips.

Camille can admit that there’s a certain kind of appeal to the expression; some might call it vixenish. 

But she much prefers when Clary’s lips are too busy parting around a moan to smirk so, despite her defiance, which really _should_ be punished-

(She has a particular paddle that she’s quite fond of, for occasions such as this)

-Camille leans in and kisses her. She slides her hand away from Clary’s neck in favor of twisting it into her river of hair and, once Clary starts kissing back with true enthusiasm, Camille drops her fangs and sinks the very tip of them into Clary’s bottom lip. 

The sound she makes is nothing less than absolutely exquisite. 

It’s a shallow wound, but blood still wells from the twin holes, trails onto Camille’s tongue and drips down her throat. It almost _burns_ and while, at the base of it, it still tastes like blood, it’s so much more than that, so different from the all too pedestrian mundane blood that Camille is far too acquainted with. In order to quench her thirst with _that_ , she usually requires two bags, at least. 

One sip of Clary’s blood is enough to sate Camille, on a purely technical front, but the angelic quality of it, how _heavenly_ it is as it singes down her throat, is far too addictive for one sip to be sufficient.

She’s fairly certain that even if she drained Clary every single day for the rest of her life, it would never be enough.

As Camille takes as much as she can get from the twin holes, Clary’s moans turn into whimpers of utmost need. Her knees are tight against Camille’s hips, squeezing against her when Camille uses her tongue to probe at the wounds. Sadly, they run dry all too soon and, mindful of the fact that Clary could probably use a breath, she pulls back, wiping at a stray drip coursing from her bottom lip. 

Camille has barely touched her, but the girl already looks thoroughly debauched. Her pupils are blown wide and black as the night sky, and her chest is heaving like she’s just finished running a marathon. 

While her bluster may make her sound like a Shadowhunter, it’s times like this that remind Camille that really, despite what her lineage may say, Clary is just a human, soft flesh and breakable bones, with all too human desires. 

She’s not complaining. 

“Do you need a moment?” she asks, tracing her thumb over Clary’s swollen bottom lip. Clary shakes her head adamantly and hooks her heels around the back of Camille’s thighs. 

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m not made of porcelain, you know.” 

_No_ , Camille thinks as she leans back in, claiming Clary’s mouth once again. _You’re made from the blood of angels, and you taste as sweet as heaven itself._

It takes a considerable amount of her willpower to resist simply shredding Clary’s clothes from her body, leaving her totally unobstructed, a true portrait of thrumming blue veins and alabaster skin begging to be marked up. She settles for removing her clothing as carefully as she removes her own before she slips between her silk sheets come sunrise. In the end, the result is much the same; Clary ends up naked upon the surface of her desk, hair falling over the opposite edge, breathless, the glow of the fire flickering across her skin. The ledger that previously took up much of the space has been knocked to the ground. 

If there’s such much as a dent or minor tear in it, Camille knows that she’s going to hear about it from Raphael later, but he’ll simply have to deal with it. 

Camille is kneeling on a throw pillow borrowed from the couch near the fireplace, and Clary’s legs are draped over her shoulders. She’s so wet, practically dripping onto Camille’s desk, so wet that Camille knows it must _ache_. The nice thing to do, she supposes, would be to help her, end the waiting game. 

But she thinks Clary can wait a little longer. 

Twisting her head, Camille sucks a bruise into Clary’s inner thigh, mere inches above another blotchy bruise the color of a fresh strawberry. She uses her fangs just the slightest, just enough to make tiny droplets of blood well up. If she were to move only a few inches, she’d be hovering right above Clary’s femoral artery; she can hear the blood rushing through it, thunderous as a river pouring over rapids and, although she hasn’t been a fledgling for centuries, the urge to simply sink her fangs into it and drink makes her throat itch. 

“Camille,” Clary groans. “ _Please_.” 

As begging goes, it’s less than impressive; it certainly doesn’t measure up to the time she teased Clary for hours, strung her tight as a tripwire, until tears were running down her face and she’d been _sobbing_ for it. 

But, sadly, not all nights can be like that. So the singular please will have to do. 

Her nails are far too sharp for her to slide her fingers into Clary and, while she could cut them in the span of two of Clary's breaths or simply get Clary off with her mouth alone, she has a better idea. 

“Stay still,” she warns before rising to her feet and crossing the room in the time it takes Clary’s heels to thud back against the front of the desk. There’s a large painting on the wall opposite the fireplace, breaking up the wall between two bookshelves, and she presses her thumb into a divot in the huge golden frame surrounding it. With a click too soft to be heard by human ears, the frame swings away from the wall, revealing two small shelves inset into the wall behind it. Some of the objects are simply too precious to be kept out into the open; exquisite pieces of jewelry that were gifts from long-ago lovers, photographs that might serve as blackmail one day, tiny golden figurines worth almost obscene amounts of money. 

But, on the bottom shelf, Camille keeps a small collection of toys, for occasions such as this. 

Quickly skimming her eyes over the selection, she settles on a glass dildo. The base and the swirl of colors inside of it, pink and purple and red, makes it look like a work of art itself. 

(She has a matching plug for it as well, one that Magnus Bane had absolutely _adored_ , but she’s fairly certain that it’ll still be a long time before Clary is ready to even consider that kind of activity. 

Pity, really.)

Pushing the painting back against the wall, she crosses the room again and drops back to her knees. Wrapping one hand around Clary’s ankle, she urges her legs back over her shoulders and tugs her forward slightly, until her hips are resting at the very edge of the desk. 

“Ready?” she asks, dragging the cool, smooth head of the dildo up the inside of Clary’s thighs, over the bruises dotting her fair skin. 

The only verbal answer Clary gives her is a frustrated moan, but Camille can hear her hair brushing against the desk’s surface in what must be a nod so, with no further preamble, Camille presses the first inch of the dildo inside. It slides in smoothly, and Clary’s gasp is astoundingly loud, so after only a momentary pause, Camille keeps going, until the base is flush with Clary’s body. Her heels dig into Camille’s back, hard enough to leave bruises, if Camille possessed that ability, and Camille can hear her nails scratching at the desk’s surface. 

“Oh my God,” Clary gasps, hips rolling downward. 

Camille can’t help but find it a little perturbing that Clary is invoking God’s name and not hers. 

That has to change, and the easiest way she can think of to do so is to focus her free hand on Clary’s clit while creating more flourishing bruises along any piece of unmarked skin she can reach. 

She sees success within moments. 

It doesn’t take long for Clary to get close; Camille can feel her thigh muscles fluttering against her mouth, tightening and relaxing as she reaches her peak. Increasing the speed of both of her hands, Camille waits until there’s almost no time between the muscle contractions. 

Then, she bites. 

She sinks her fangs into the taut skin of Clary’s inner thigh, and as warm blood pours into her mouth like rain from the sky, Clary comes with her back arched and Camille’s name spilling from her lips. 

Though the wound is the full depth of her fangs, it’s not on an artery or major vein so, by the time Clary has sagged back against the desk, heartbeat considerably less deafening, the flow of blood has trickled to a near-stop. Camille savors the last drops before she leans back, carefully slides the dildo out of Clary’s body and places it off to the side for the time being. 

“Satisfied?” she asks, ducking out from underneath Clary’s legs. 

“Definitely,” Clary sighs, slowly sitting up. She’s flushed pink from her waist to her cheeks, and she’s never looked more stunning. “Your turn.”

“Oh, love,” Camille laughs, pressing one nail into a particularly vibrant bruise on the inside of Clary’s thigh. “I don’t think you have the stamina right now.” 

Fury that is _purely_ Shadowhunter in nature flashes across Clary’s bright eyes in the seconds before she jumps off the edge of the desk and shoves at Camille’s shoulders. 

Even though she’s almost certainly pushing with all of her strength, it isn’t enough to move Camille an inch, but she chooses to lie back upon the floor. 

She’s curious to see if Clary can prove her wrong. 

(When Clary finally leaves at two o’clock in the morning, it’s with tangled hair and her phone to her ear, babbling out an apology to Simon for missing his show. 

Camille, on the other hand, isn’t the least bit sorry.)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~this is totally self-indulgent and I regret nothing.~~
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
